


Touch

by sneetchstar



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Massage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-21
Updated: 2017-03-20
Packaged: 2018-10-08 15:58:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10390419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sneetchstar/pseuds/sneetchstar
Summary: After a car wreck, Arthur needs to see a massage therapist.





	1. Chapter 1

"Arthur?"

A soft, smoky voice reaches Arthur Pendragon's ears and he looks up from his smartphone. _This tiny person is going to be my massage therapist?_ He pockets his phone, stands, and walks up to her.

"Hi, I'm Gwen," she says, offering her hand.

He takes it and clasps it briefly. Her hand is very soft, but her grip is reassuringly firm. _Maybe she's stronger than she looks._ "Hello," he says.

"This way, please." She leads him down a corridor, past three doors, and steps beside the fourth, indicating he should enter.

He walks into the room. The lighting is low. There is a chair and a small side table with a piece of pottery on it. In the center of the small room is a flat, upholstered table made up with sheets and a blanket. There is another table at the far end of the room holding a few bottles and a small stereo.

He tries not to cringe at the soothing New Age music playing. _Chirping birds, babbling brooks, and pan flutes. Ugh._

"So, your physical therapist... Merlin Emrys... recommended you see me for some massage therapy," Gwen begins, looking at some pages on a clipboard.

"Um, yeah," Arthur answers, looking down at her. _She's cute. Nice eyes. Good skin. No,_ great _skin. Full lips, always a plus._ His eyes drift to her neck where a few loose curls brush against her skin. "I was in a car accident last month, and there are still some kinks needing to be worked out."

"Yes, I see," she replies, not looking up from the clipboard. "Whiplash, dislocated shoulder, sprained knee." She looks up at him. "How's the car?"

"What?" He blinks at her, surprised. Her soft brown eyes are smiling at him. "You're teasing me," he realizes, exhaling a little laugh. "The car is toast."

"Well, let's see if there's still hope for you then," she says. She looks down again and starts rifling through her papers. "Am I doing just those areas, or are you getting a full body...?" she asks. Arthur's not sure if she's talking to him or herself.

"Just those spots," he says. "For now. Maybe I'll treat myself to the works one day."

"All right. Have you had a professional massage before?"

"No," he answers.

"In that case, I'll be gentle," she says, smiling impishly as she moves toward the door. "So, undress down to your comfort level, and we'll start with you face-up on the table. I'll knock before I enter." She leaves the room, closing the door.

Gwen takes the clipboard back to the front desk, then waits outside. _Bloody hell, he is gorgeous. Seriously. I don't know whether to thank Merlin for the recommendation or kill him._

_Get it together, Gwen. Focus. He's just another client._

She hears the quiet sounds of Arthur climbing on the table and (hopefully) sliding under the blankets, so she waits about 15 more seconds, then knocks.

"Ready," his voice bids her enter.

"Comfortable?" she asks, closing the door. "Too warm; too cold?"

"I'm good," he answers, lifting his knees so she can adjust the bolster beneath them. "Better now."

"Good," she answers, stepping around to the end of the table, standing behind his head.

"Um, Gwen?" Arthur asks, opening his eyes and looking up at her.

"Hmm?"

"The music... it's, um..."

"It's crap, isn't it?" she asks, smiling. "This one in particular is awful. All those water sounds..."

He laughs, and she stops the CD.

"You can put on literally anything other than that New Age rubbish," Arthur says, listening to her fiddle with the stereo.

"Ah," she declares, finding the correct disc. "Henryk Górecki, Symphony No. 3."

"Symphony of Sorrowful Songs," Arthur unthinkingly says.

"You know it?" she asks, impressed.

"My mother was a professor of music," he answers. "I know an almost embarrassing amount about classical music via osmosis."

Gwen makes a mental note of his use of the word "was" in reference to his mother, but doesn't comment on it. "Classical music is underrated," she says, reaching for a bottle of oil.

"Mmm-hmm," he agrees, closing his eyes again as the music, barely audible, begins to reach his ears.

Gwen rubs her hands together, spreading the oil and warming it between her hands as she sits on the upholstered stool behind Arthur's head.

Arthur's eyes open when her hands first make contact with his skin, then drift closed again. Her touch is firm and soothing; her hands, warm and soft. _She is a lot stronger than she looks._ "Oh..." The groan escapes his lips before he realizes he's made the sound.

She makes nothing of it, having heard all manner of grunts and groans from her clients. _Yes, but most of your clients don't look like_ he _does,_ a small voice sounds in her head. She ignores it.

"Have you been a massage therapist very long?" Arthur asks after a time, not opening his eyes.

Some of her clients talk, some don't. She has no preference, always letting the client make that call. "Four years," she says.

"Mmm," he answers, but she's not sure if he's groaning again or acknowledging her answer. "You're... ow... very good. That was a good 'ow', keep going."

"Okay. And, thank you," she says. "I thought you said you'd never had a professional massage?"

"I haven't."

"Then, how do you know if I'm any good?" she asks, smiling. She sets one hand on his shoulder as she reaches back with the other hand for more oil.

"Ha," he exhales a short laugh. "Good point. I simply meant I was enjoying... I mean, I can feel you're doing some good," he says. _Smooth, Arthur._

"Ah. You should be able to feel a slight difference, but it's going to take a few times. You're still pretty stiff," she says, her slender, strong hands working the larger muscles of his shoulder. "Knotted up," she clarifies.

"Merlin did suggest... ohhh... five or six appointments," he says.

"Sounds about right," she says. Her sensitive fingers dig into his skin, slowly, slowly, pressing upwards into a tight knot hiding beside his shoulder blade, using his body weight and gravity to aid her.

"Bloody hell..." he exhales.

"Yes, that's a good one," she agrees.

"I can feel it all the way down my arm."

"I'm not surprised," she says, easing off, then returning.

He grows quiet while she continues working his shoulder, moving from his shoulder blade to the arm joint. _Her hands feel so bloody good_.

"You have very strong hands," Arthur speaks again as she finishes massaging that particular area. She moves down the length of the table, taking her bottle of oil with as she uncovers his leg.

"Certainly hope so," she comments lightly, rubbing oil into his knee.

"Sorry, that was dumb, wasn't it?" he asks.

"Not tremendously so, but... a little bit," she says, chuckling. "Not the dumbest thing I've heard by a long ways though." She presses a spot on the side of his leg and he hisses a little. "Found it," she declares.

"Yeah," he croaks. Wincing slightly, he gathers his wits. "What was?"

"What was what?" she asks.

"What was the dumbest thing you've heard?"

"From a client or in general? Because I'd be hard-pressed to name just one thing if we're talking big-picture stupid," she says.

Arthur's laugh ends with a small "ouch". "All right, from a client."

"Had one ask me if I was over 18," she says.

"You do look young," he replies.

"By 'young' you mean 'short'."

"No. Well... no. Your face has a youthful appearance to – ow – it."

"Not helping..." Gwen sings, but she is smiling.

"I meant it as a compliment," Arthur protests. _Hang on, why do I feel the need to compliment her? And, why do I need to make sure she understands it's a compliment_?

"I know. Thank you," she says. "I've always looked younger than my age."

"You'll love that when you're 40," he offers.

"Maybe," she shrugs. "You look _your_ age."

"Great," he says, not sounding thrilled.

"All I meant was you're 27 and you look like you are in your mid-to-late 20s," she explains. "I meant it as a compliment," she adds, smiling. She finds herself glancing at his left hand where it rests on his stomach. _No ring. Why are you looking?_

"Ah. I suppose that's a good thing," he allows. She covers his leg with the blanket again, and he opens his eyes, frowning as he realizes his session is over. Her face comes into view and his smile returns.

"It is. I still get asked to show ID all the time. It's a pain," she says. "Take your time getting up. There's a bottle of water for you on the table, and I'll meet you in front to schedule your next appointment."

 _All business again._ "Okay," he says.

She touches his arm once, then leaves.

He schedules an appointment for the same time each week for the next six.

She gives him a few business cards. "One for you and some to give away," she explains.

He looks down at the top card. _Guinevere Thomas is the name shown. She has an amazing name._ "See you next week, Guinevere," he says. He smiles, tucks the cards into his pocket, and heads out the door.

Gwen stares at the doors even after he's out of sight, his voice speaking her full name resonating in her head. She shakes her head, trying to clear it. _He's just a client._


	2. Chapter 2

A week later, there is much less preamble as Guinevere doesn't need to gather any information. She just waves a CD at him and says, "Stravinsky's _Firebird._ "

"Nice," he assesses, nodding.

She smiles and leaves. When she returns, they find conversation comes a little easier this time.

"How do you know Merlin?" Arthur asks. Then, he groans as she stretches his neck to the side.

"Went to university together," she answers. "Did you not sleep well last night? Your neck is all kinked up in a new and exciting way."

He snorts a laugh. "Fell asleep in the recliner," he admits. "I woke up around four, confused and – ohhhh – sore."

She makes a soft "hmm" sound of acknowledgement. "You're making me earn my keep today."

"Guess so," he says.

"Merlin's a good bloke," Guinevere volunteers, speaking before Arthur can even finish figuring out how to tactfully ask her if she and Merlin are _together_ without being completely obvious about it. "He was dating my roommate, and we got on right away."

"That's nice," Arthur comments, not surprised. His physical therapist is remarkably affable. "Are they still together?"

"Well, you'd need to ask him. Professional discretion and all that," she lightly answers, with a smile.

"Oh. Right. It's just that he's never mentioned a girlfriend. Surprising, considering all he does is talk."

She laughs, her hands momentarily stilling. "It's a distraction technique," she says. "He figures if he keeps talking, you won't notice he's making you exercise."

"Doesn't work," Arthur says. _So, I still don't know if she's with Merlin or not, or if she's even single. Not that she'd date a client anyway._ "He's not as clever as he thinks."

Guinevere chuckles. "Your opinion," she says, smiling. "If you weren't his patient, you'd probably like him a great deal."

"I do like him. He's just a giant pain in my arse," he replies.

"You do realize you're actually _paying_ him to make you work," she points out.

"Bugger, I never thought about it like that," he laughs. "Oh, that's a good spot," he adds.

"Yep," she agrees.

"You're very good," he says. "I have to say I was skeptical last week, because you're kind of... petite..."

She snorts a laugh and moves to his knee.

"But, you're quite strong. You have... a good touch," he quietly says.

"Thank you," she says.

"You must have radar in your fingers or something because you find _every_ spot," he adds.

"Would you like me to make a beeping sound?" she asks, chuckling at him. He laughs, closing his eyes again.

She works his knee, frowning at the knots that have re-formed over the week, keeping her eyes trained on the joint, telling herself that her appreciation of his excellent bone structure and muscle tone is of a purely professional nature and definitely _not_ because she finds him really fit and impossibly gorgeous.

"I didn't even know I could get sore muscles in some of those spots," Arthur says, his voice croaking a little as he tries to keep it steady. The knotted muscles along the outside of his knee are much more painful than the ones in his neck and shoulder, perhaps because of their unexpected presence.

"Too hard?" she asks, stopping.

"No. Just... different _._ " He peeks at her, at her full lips pursed in concentration, at the little worry line that forms between her eyebrows as she frowns adorably at his leg. _God, she's cute. And, really cool, too. She probably has a boyfriend. Or husband. Or girlfriend._ These thoughts make him frown, even while he reminds himself that he is her client.

Guinevere covers his leg up again and moves back up by his head. "I want to take another look at your neck," she explains.

"Okay," he agrees, feeling happier than he probably should that his session isn't quite yet done.


	3. Chapter 3

Arthur waits in the lobby, a bit anxious this week for two reasons.

1\. He brought a CD along and hopes Guinevere likes his choice.

2\. He had a dream about her two nights ago that has been replaying in his head as often as possible despite his attempts to banish it from his memory.

"Arthur?" she calls, and he practically leaps out of his seat. An older woman waiting nearby sees this and smiles knowingly.

"Hi," Arthur says, walking over to Guinevere.

"Hi, yourself," she answers, smiling before leading him back to the room.

He watches her walk, appreciating her slender form. It's obscured slightly by the loose, comfortable clothing she wears, but he can tell she has a nice little body under that grey hoodie, and wonders what she would look like in an elegant gown similar to the ones women wear to the dinners he sometimes has to attend.

He vehemently does _not_ wonder what she would look like wearing nothing at all, and pushes memories of the dream back, shoving it into a closet, locking the door, and nailing boards over said door.

"Oh, I brought this," he says, withdrawing the CD from his pocket and handing it to her.

"Ooo, Holst's _Planets_ ," she says. "Cool." She places it on the table, smiles at him again, and leaves.

As he undresses, he idly wonders if she would consider going out with him. _Once I'm all healed up and don't need to see her for this..._

"All set?" Guinevere asks.

"Yes," Arthur answers.

She enters the room, puts the disc on, then removes her hoodie, muttering something about the room "feeling warm today."

Arthur swallows, his throat dry, as she approaches him wearing a snug-fitting purple v-neck t-shirt. He closes his eyes. A very specific image from his dream floats into his mind, now adjusted slightly for better accuracy. _Go away, Image. I'm lying on my back. This could be bad._

Guinevere unknowingly rescues him, giving his brain something on which to focus other than her close proximity. "What do you do?" she asks. "For work, I mean."

 _Safe topic, thank God._ "I work in advertising," he answers.

"Oh, really? May I ask where?" Her expert fingers push and slide against the skin of his neck, and Arthur now fully understands the phrase "putty in your hands."

"I run the Graphic Arts department for Dragon Media," he says.

"I think I know where that is. Big, old, Gothic looking building?"

"Mmm-hmm," Arthur answers. "The inside has been fully updated."

"Certainly hope so," she says. "Graphic Arts? So, you're an artist then." _He has the hands of an artist._ She finds herself gazing at his hands, staring a little too long at their broad, square shape and his long, supple fingers, slender, but undeniably masculine.

His voice snaps her out of her reverie. "Actually, my official title is Vice President of Visual Design Solutions."

"Visual Design Solutions?" she repeats, eyebrows lifting. "I don't want to sound impolite, but that title sounds a bit like—"

"A bit like calling a trash can a Solid Waste Disposal System, yeah, I know," he allows, smiling when he hears her laugh.

"Can I be a Human Musculature Technician then?" she asks, rubbing a line with her thumb from his shoulder, up the side of his neck to his hairline. _His hair is_ not _really soft and does_ not _smell really good. Nope. Not one bit._

He laughs. "You're funny," he comments. "I like that." The last bit slips out, the words spoken without thinking. _All I can do is hope she doesn't mind._

"Thanks," she answers, finding the particular sore spot beside his shoulder blade again. "This is getting better," Guinevere murmurs. "I do have to say that not all of the wordy job titles these days are bad. I much prefer 'Massage Therapist' over 'Masseuse'."

"I don't blame you," Arthur agrees.

"Misleading connotations," she continues.

Arthur wonders if she's giving him a hint; that she doesn't feel the same way he is quickly realizing he feels about her. He chooses his answer carefully, deciding to try for humor. "I don't know. Whenever I hear the word 'masseuse' I picture a woman probably called Helga who is a strapping six feet tall former wrestler with blonde braids. No idea why."

Guinevere laughs again. "You're funny, too," she says. He opens his eyes to see her smiling down at him, her eyes twinkling merrily. He holds her gaze for a few seconds too long, however, and she suddenly looks down, focusing on his shoulder once again. She feels her cheeks color and hopes it's not too visible in the dim light of the room. _Stop it. He probably has a girlfriend anyway. Not that I date client_ s.

"Thank you," he quietly answers, growing silent for a few moments as he tries to think of a way to steer the conversation back to "safer" ground. _Think, think, think._ "Are you from here originally?" He opens his eyes and sees her face hovering over him, her lush, full lips a foot from his face. He realizes he's staring, and closes his eyes again, still able to see them in his mind's eye. The memory of that dream starts to creep back in, but her voice draws his attention back. _Thank God._

She finishes his shoulder and steps down to his knee. "No. I was born in Bristol. I went to university here and stayed after graduation. Basically, because I got this job. You?"

"Born and raised here," he answers. "Ow."

"Well, if you would do the home exercises Merlin gives you, it might help this knee," she gently chides, looking sideways at him.

"I do them," he meekly answers, his eyes closed.

She stops her hands and looks straight at him until he opens his eyes and lifts his head slightly.

"Sometimes."

She blinks.

He drops his head back. "How can you tell?" he asks, admitting she's right without actually saying it.

"Because it's my job," she answers.

"Are you going to tattle on me?"

"I don't believe I need to do that. He knows."

 _Yeah, he probably does._ "I'll try to do better."

"You need to do more than 'try' if you don't want this knee to trouble you for the rest of your life. You look pretty fit – I mean, you look like you enjoy sport – so, if you want to be able to still kick a football around—"

"How do you know _that_?" he asks, mystified as to how she could tell he played football. _Did she just call me 'fit'?_

"Your shins are somewhat beaten up and you have a footy player's feet."

"Yeah, I should probably give those back," he jokes.

"Arthur!" she exclaims, laughing. "I'm being serious," she tries, but is still laughing.

 _She has a great laugh._ "I know, sorry. I'll start doing what I'm told," he answers, not wishing to admit that he's only willing to start doing his prescribed exercises because _she_ told him to do them.

"Good," she says, nodding decisively and returning to his knee. After a few minutes, she speaks. "Pendragon. Dragon Media."

"Yeah," Arthur admits. "I try to stay low-key about it. I hate it when people think I'm posh or didn't earn my position at work."

"I didn't think that," Guinevere says. "Even after I made the connection with your name." _Strange. I really_ didn't _think that. He just seems like such a good, down-to-earth person. The thought of him taking advantage never entered my mind._

"Oh," he answers. "Thanks," he says, smiling. "I started out as a regular graphic designer just like everyone else. If anything, Father holds me to a _higher_ standard than the others. I was promoted when the previous VP retired." _Why did I just tell her all of this?_

"Do you like your work?" she asks.

"Most of the time. I mean, there are days..."

"Too right there," she agrees. "Everyone has days like those. But, I figure as long as you like your job _most_ of the time, you're better off than a lot of people, right?"

"I suppose that's true," he agrees.

She covers his leg with the blanket. "All set for this week," she declares, smiling pleasantly despite the dismay she tries not to feel at not seeing him for another seven days.

"Already?" _Did I sound desperate? That sounded desperate._ "I mean, it just seemed to go fast this week."

"I'll try to figure out how to alter time before your next visit," she answers. She smiles, pats the top of his foot, and leaves so he can dress.

 _Alter time so my next visit comes sooner, too,_ _please_.


	4. Chapter 4

"I've got something a bit different today," Guinevere says, holding up a CD.

"Oh, are we playing 'Stump the Maestro' or something?" Arthur asks, a smug grin on his face as he takes the disc. "Oh." His face falls when he discovers she has, in fact, stumped him.

"Ha," she says. "I'll wager you _do_ know them actually," she adds, plucking it from his hand. "Get undressed and I'll educate you." She exits the room and closes the door. In the hallway, she leans against the wall, a perplexed look on her face. _"Get undressed and I'll educate you"? In which gutter is my brain languishing?_ She takes a deep breath and attempts to get a grip on herself.

Unfortunately, Arthur Pendragon is almost all she's been able to think about. She has always found him attractive, she's never denied that. But, she has since learned he is also charming, engaging, and a genuinely good and kind person. Those facts have only made him _more_ attractive. _He also has good taste in music, is funny,_ _and easy to talk to._ The list grows every time she sees him. He's been hovering at the edges of her brain for at least two weeks, invading her thoughts at the most unexpected times.

Most interestingly, she's stopped playing New Age music for nearly all of her clients except one, an older woman who claims to genuinely enjoy the sound of wind chimes, pan flutes, and whale song.

Guinevere takes another deep breath, squares her shoulders, and knocks, realizing she wasn't even listening for Arthur. She instinctively knows how long he needs. "Arthur?"

"Yeah," he calls back.

When she enters the room, he's lying on the table reading the CD case. "Still don't think I know them," he says, handing it to her. She smiles and puts the music on. Before she even touches him, he speaks. "Oh. _These_ guys," he says, smiling. "I didn't know their name."

"Now you know," she says. "Ladysmith Black Mambazo. They're from South Africa and are amazing. Very soothing." She starts working on his neck, focusing her attention on her hands and concentrating on her work.

"I recognize them from – ohhh – Paul Simon's _Graceland_ album," Arthur supplies. His eyes are closed, and he, too, is concentrating on Guinevere's hands and the work they are doing, but for a very different reason.

He knows he only has two more sessions after this, so he wants to enjoy them while he can. He also knows that no matter how much he enjoys these appointments with her, he can't continue them past this course of six.

If he does, he'll have to find someone new.

It's getting more difficult each week. More difficult to stop himself from lifting his head from the table and kissing her when she is so close. More difficult to stop himself from reaching out and touching her arm, her hip, her face. More difficult to stop himself from thinking _thoughts_ that will make his body react in an obvious and potentially embarrassing way.

"That's a good album," she quietly replies. _Keep the talk to a minimum. Do your job._

"Yeah, it is. Holds up over time, too," he agrees. He groans slightly as her thumbs glide along the side of his neck, stretching and soothing. "Oh, I have been noticing a difference in how my body feels, just so you know."

"Good. I'm glad," she replies.

"Thank you," he says. "For your, um, skill, I guess."

"Just doing my job," she answers lightly. The words feel like a lie though, and she frowns, hoping he keeps his eyes closed.

"Well, you are an artist," he continues, his brain telling him _shut up shut up shut up you're going to freak her out._

"Um, thanks," she says, laughing a little. "Sorry, that's a first for me. I've never been called an 'artist' before."

"Pity," he says. "You should change your title from Massage Therapist to… what was it? Human Musculature _Artisan._ " He opens his eyes and grins up at her.

"Okay, that's just weird," she says, laughing now. His face turns soft and serious, almost tender, as he gazes up at her, and her laughter quickly fades. She stares back, a bemused half-smile on her face. "Oh." She snaps out of it, quickly turning to get more oil to start working on his shoulder.

They both fall silent for several minutes, struck by the moment they just shared. The electricity in the air. Words unsaid, yet somehow felt. Guinevere avoids his eyes, again concentrating on her task. Arthur stares at the ceiling, listening to the harmonious voices on the CD. He wants to say something. He just doesn't know what.

"What language is this?" he finally asks.

"I think it's Zulu," she answers.

"Oh."

She moves from his shoulder to his leg, grateful for the distance from his face. _His perfect face with its chiseled jawline and kissable full lips and straight nose and distracting slate blue eyes._

The silence is heavy now, neither of them speaking, each acutely aware of the other. Every move, every breath seems amplified in the small room.

"I finally got a new car," Arthur blurts, unable to stand the silence, hoping this topic will prompt more of a proper conversation from her. _She's unusually quiet today. Even before the… whatever it was that happened._

"It took this long?" Guinevere asks, looking up. _Cars. Good. We can talk about cars._

"You know how insurance is. If you owe them money, they need it yesterday. But, if they have to pay out, then they take their bloody sweet time about it," he says.

She chuckles and nods. "Yeah, that's fairly accurate," she agrees. "What did you get?"

"BMW X3," he says. "I've been wanting an SUV."

"Fancy," she says, thinking of her aging Volkswagen in the parking lot.

"I decided to splurge," he says.

"Good for you. A person needs to do that sometimes," she says, looking at him for exactly two seconds before ducking her head over his knee, eyes trained on her hands. "Your knee seems to be a lot better," she adds.

"I've been doing my exercises like a good boy," he proudly declares. "Merlin was impressed."

"I should think so, and I'm pleased you listened to my advice," she says, covering his leg up. "Okay, you're set for this week," she says, patting his shin through the blanket.

 _Does she sound sad, or am I projecting?_ "Um, Guinevere?" he asks.

"Yes?"

"Would you… would you take a look at my hand? It's been troubling me… at work… you know, with the computer, and…" It's the truth, but it is also a way to get to spend a few more minutes with her. "I mean, if you have time, I don't want to make you late for your next appointment..."

"I have time," she says, stepping closer again. She takes his hand and starts massaging it, her strong, sure fingers pressing into the thick pad of his thumb. _His hands are as gorgeous as the rest of him._ "Where exactly?" Her voice comes out a little breathier than she wants, but she hopes he doesn't notice.

"Ooo. There. Where the thumb meets my palm," he says. "And, down into my wrist," he adds, wincing slightly.

Guinevere moves her fingers around, chasing the soreness. "Make sure you step away from your desk periodically," she advises. "Lean back and stretch the other way if you find yourself hunched in front of your computer. You probably don't have an ergonomic keyboard or anything..."

"No," Arthur says, watching how her slender fingers move skillfully on his skin. "Should I get one?"

"It wouldn't be a bad idea. I can show you some simple stretches for this, too," she adds.

"More exercises I can say I'll do, but won't?" he asks, eyes twinkling at her.

She snorts a small laugh. "Exactly."

She scowls at his wrist, lifts his arm a little higher, steps closer, and clamps his hand between her elbow and her side, working the muscles up and down his forearm. Arthur tries to ignore the somewhat intimate position, and when Guinevere finds a surprisingly tender spot on the inside of his elbow near the joint, massaging it firmly, he is thankful for the distracting pain.

"Ah," he hisses. "Whoa, all the way up there?"

"Often, where you feel the pain is not where the problem is," she says. "Can you feel this in your wrist?" She presses the spot again.

"Yeah," he answers. "Wow. That feels... it hurts, but it feels better. You are amazing."

"I don't know if I'd go that far," she comments, ignoring the wobble in her stomach at the gentle tone in which he complimented her.

"I would." The words are out before he can stop them.

She meets his eyes for a second, then drops them, her long, dark lashes casting shadows on her cheeks. _She's lovely. She really is._

"Okay, I think you should be good for this week," she says, her voice quieter than usual as she sets his arm down on the table.

He wants to reach out and catch her hand. He clutches the blanket covering him to stop from doing so.

"Thank you, Guinevere. See you next week," he says.

"You're welcome, Arthur," she answers.


	5. Chapter 5

"Arthur?"

Arthur's head snaps up at the sound of a different voice calling his name. A _male_ voice. He stands and walks over to a huge, well-muscled man about his age. "Um, yes?"

"Hi," the man extends his hand. "I'm Percival. Gwen isn't able to see you today," he says.

"Is she ill?" Arthur asks, shaking his hand. "I'm happy to reschedule if she is…" His brows furrow with worry. _I hope she's all right._

"Um, no. She… she asked if I'd take you for this week and next actually. Didn't really say why, sorry," Percival says, smiling apologetically. "She's brought me fully up-to-date on your injuries and progress."

 _Of course, she did. Because she's conscientious and trustworthy._ Arthur nods and follows his new massage therapist to the room. _I wonder why she dropped me? We were getting along so well…_ His mind drifts back to the quiet, tension-filled visit a week ago. _Did she feel that, too? Or,did I make her uncomfortable and scare her away?_

"All right, mate, I'll be back in a few," Percival says, leaving him alone to undress.

Arthur sits in the chair a minute, confused and unhappy. He undresses more slowly than usual, and is just trudging to the table when Percival knocks.

"Ready?"

"Almost," Arthur answers, climbing up on the table. "Okay," he calls.

The large man enters and walks to the CD player. "Gwen told me you don't go for the New Age stuff," he says.

"Um, not really, no," Arthur replies, thinking of the Percy Grainger CD he had brought, now abandoned in his jacket pocket.

"I've got some jazz..." Percival says, flipping through a binder. "Vince Guaraldi Trio okay?"

"Sure," Arthur says, not really caring. He likes Guaraldi, but can't conjure up any enthusiasm for it in Guinevere's absence.

Percival starts the music and starts to work on Arthur's neck.

Arthur has to admit, he likes Percival. He's an excellent massage therapist and is well-versed in the world of sport, being a former athlete himself. He played rugby in university, but decided to go to the US and try his hand at American Football. He got as far as being on the practice squad for a team whose name Arthur didn't really catch, but suffered a career-ending injury.

"After that, I came back here – with a wife, so she's one good thing that came out of my time in America – and decided to do this," Percival concludes, looking down at Arthur's leg as he speaks.

"You didn't want to coach or anything like that?" Arthur asks.

"Nah, didn't interest me. I don't like yelling," he says. "People were actually surprised I was interested in rugby and American football." He looks up at Arthur. "I'm a bit soft-hearted," he admits, his face breaking into a boyish grin.

Arthur smiles for the first time, even chuckling a little. He's actually not surprised, given the care the large man has been using during his treatment. _I'm sure he could crush me without a tremendous effort on his part, but he actually has a lighter touch than Guinevere has._ His smile slides into a frown at the thought of her, wondering again why she dropped him.

"So, your wife is American?" Arthur asks, needing idle chit-chat to keep his brain occupied.

"Yeah. Thankfully, she was completely in favor of moving here. Of course, if she had wanted to stay in Colorado, I would have been happy to stay."

_Colorado, right. The Denver... Stallions? Broncos. That was the team._

"Of course," Arthur vaguely answers.

"All right, mate, that's the lot. You're set for this week," Percival declares, tightly clasping his hands in front of his chest, making his huge arm muscles jump and flex as he rubs his large mitts together.

 _I should really go to the gym._ "Okay, thanks."

"Take your time," Percival adds.

Arthur nods and closes his eyes, sighing heavily. A moment later, he hears Percival exit.

 _He was good. Nice guy. Just... not_ her. _Not Guinevere._

He sighs again, then throws the blanket off and turns, flopping his feet to the floor. He looks at the small table with the pottery on it and sees an envelope propped against the pot. _That wasn't there before. Percival must have set it there._ His name is written on it in neat handwriting. He walks over, quickly dresses, then sits in the chair. He picks up the envelope and opens it.

_Arthur,_

_I'm sorry I am unable to continue treating you. I also apologize for not telling you about the change in advance. You've done nothing to offend or upset me in any way, and I enjoyed our conversations very much._

_However, that is kind of the problem. My personal feelings have begun to interfere with my ability to effectively do my job, so I passed you to Percival. He will take excellent care of you._

_I wish you the best and hope your injuries don't cause any lasting damage._

_Guinevere_

Arthur smiles, his heart pounding. _Personal feelings? She… she likes me?_

When he leaves the building, the smile is still on his face. A hopeful smile.

He looks up Merlin's number as he walks to his car. "Merlin Emrys, please. Arthur Pendragon calling."

"One moment, Mr. Pendragon," the receptionist says, placing him on hold.

He waits, listening to an endless loop of the same eight bars of _Spring_ from Vivaldi's _Four Seasons_ until he's ready to jam his car keys in his ears.

"This is Merlin," his physical therapist's voice finally breaks through.

"Merlin," Arthur exhales. "You _have_ to give me Guinevere's number. Guinevere Thomas. Her personal number. Please," he asks, trying not to sound as desperate as he feels.

"Um, who is this?"


	6. Chapter 6

"Mmm..." Arthur groans happily as he feels Guinevere's hands moving over his skin, aided by the light massage oil. They slide from his shoulders, down his back, then lower, over his backside to his thighs. She reverses direction and runs her hands up his body. She pauses and squeezes his rear.

"I don't believe that's standard practice," he comments.

"Well, this is hardly a _standard_ massage, is it?" she replies, squeezing once more before moving her hands up his back. She kneels on the bed, straddling his hips as she rubs his back. As her hands return to his shoulders, she leans down and kisses his neck.

"I certainly hope not," he says. "If so, I haven't been getting my money's worth."

"Well, you didn't opt for the full body massage, so..." she says, smiling as she nips his ear.

He laughs, pressing his face into the pillow, loving how her soft, small, warm body feels over his.

After pleading with Merlin on the phone for five minutes, the physical therapist said he'd give Guinevere _Arthur's_ number and leave the decision up to her. She sent Arthur a text an hour later asking him to call her after five.

The call with Merlin proved to be the only difficult part. Guinevere was surprised, but happy to hear from Arthur, even expressing regret over not including her phone number in the letter she asked Percival to leave for him after his massage. "I was afraid to put it in there... but also kind of afraid that because I didn't, I'd never see you again," she told him over dinner the next night.

Arthur took her hand, kissed it, and said, "I'm much too persistent and far too smitten to have allowed that to happen."

She smiled and looked down at her plate. "I did grab your mobile number from your paperwork," she admitted. "You know, just in case."

After dinner, Arthur drove Guinevere to her flat and finally allowed himself to indulge in the softness of her lips while standing outside her door.

That was just over two weeks ago.

"I think my front needs tending," Arthur says, turning his head to kiss her lips.

"I think I tended to your front quite thoroughly an hour ago," Guinevere answers. He suddenly turns, flipping onto his back, and she yelps and jumps to the side, giggling.

"Yes, well, that was an hour ago," he says, pulling her over him again, worming his hands up underneath the gray t-shirt she commandeered just under an hour ago. "However, I'm beginning to feel a definite stiffn—"

"Don't you dare say it!" she exclaims, laughing and covering his mouth with her hand. "You are terrible," she adds, still laughing.

"Yes, I am," he agrees, pulling her down over him while shoving the t-shirt higher, allowing his hands to caress her incredibly soft skin. "Terribly enchanted with you," he adds, his voice softer now as he captures her lips in a soft kiss.

Guinevere melts against him, giving in to her own reignited desire. She pulls away for only a second; just long enough to pull his t-shirt off and drop it to the floor.

xXx

"Are you awake?" Guinevere's soft voice in the dark reaches Arthur some time later, curled in front of him in his bed.

"Mmm-hmm," he answers, ducking his head to nuzzle her neck.

"What are you doing next Saturday?" she asks, turning her head towards him.

"This one coming up in three days, or the following?" he asks in return. "Not that it matters really. For you, I'm free both days."

She smiles. "A week from this coming Saturday," she clarifies.

"What's going on?" he asks.

She turns around and faces him. "Merlin's wedding. Will you be my plus-one?"

"Of course," he answers immediately, absently taking one of her hands. He lifts it to his lips, kissing each of her fingertips in turn. "Isn't it a bit short notice for them though?"

"My plus-one was already included in the count. I was going to bring my brother."

"Won't he be upset?" He kisses her palm.

She shakes her head and curls her fingers to softly touch his cheek. "Quite the opposite actually. He has a new girlfriend, so he was more than happy to bow out," she explains. "I may have already broached the topic with him," she admits, grinning.

"I'm glad I’m available then. Win-win," he says, smiling. He wraps his fingers around hers and holds her hand to his chest. "What dinner did your brother choose? Since it's going to be mine, you know."

She giggles and tucks her head under his chin. "I think it was beef tips or something. Definitely red meat."

"Oh, good," he replies. He pauses a moment, kissing her forehead and tucking a curl behind her ear. "Are you in the wedding party?"

"No," she answers, smiling. "Freya – that's his fiancée – would have liked for me to be in it, but she has a huge family, so the bridesmaids are all her sisters. I'm really fine with it."

Arthur nods, understanding. "What should we do _this_ Saturday then?" he asks, kissing her forehead.

"Mmm," Guinevere sighs, snuggling in against him. "You can take me shopping. I still have to find a dress."

He tightens his arms around her. "Okay," he agrees.

"Really?" she lifts her head. "You'll go shopping with me?" He nods, his face serious. "You'll hold my purse? Carry my bags? Tell me I don't look fat, then agree without comment when I want ice cream?"

He chuckles, kissing her. "Yes, yes, yes, and yes." He kisses her again, longer. "I'll go anywhere you want as long as I can be with you," he says, nuzzling her nose.

She smiles, her eyes soft as she gazes up into his. "Are you always going to be this sweet?" she asks.

"I'm definitely going to try," he answers, gathering her closer, wanting more contact. She snuggles against him, content. "You bring out the best in me."

"I think you're probably pretty good without my influence," she answers. She lays her palm flat on his chest, over his heart.

"Your hands are always so warm," he whispers.

"Must be why I have... what was it you said? Such a 'good touch'," she answers, smiling against his neck.

He looks down and gently lifts her chin with his index finger. "You've touched my heart as well, Guinevere," he murmurs, dropping his head to softly claim her lips once more.


End file.
